


Dark and Deep Roads

by AkiRah



Series: Hold The Sky [12]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Broodmothers are terrifying, Crisis of Faith, Elf Tears, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Multi, Orzammar part 2, The Anvil of the Void, The Deep Roads, The Legion of the dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 11:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5373968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkiRah/pseuds/AkiRah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a final attempt to gain troops from Orzammar to help with the blight, Surana and her companions travel into the deep roads in search of Paragon Branka.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Should Not Be My Job

They returned to the palace during what Surana assumed was Orzammar’s approximation of night, in so far as Bhelen had gone to bed, apparently pleased about the presentation of Jarvia’s head, though no one would tell Surana what he’d thought of actually _recieving_ the head. She tried very hard not to care. They were given rooms for the night, actually plural as Bhelen was the only member of the Aeducan family left. Alistair was given the youngest son’s old bed, as it was the softest and he was the most badly injured. She kissed him again, careful to keep his head still because while he would be fine after an evening’s rest she didn’t want to push their luck. 

“You know,” Zevran said, leaning against the door as Surana left the room in search of a bathroom (dwarves had developed indoor plumbing, a requirement when one lived underground, the refuse went into the lava lake. The tower had taken advantage of the discovery, as had some of the wealthier noble families in Orlais and Ferelden where it could be implemented.) “I’ve always heard that it is bad luck to sleep after you receive a concussion. You should keep Alistair awake tonight.” 

Surana gave him a confused look for a moment and then blushed vividly as she got his meaning. “I . . . I’ll keep talking to him but . . . now’s not . . .yeah.”

“A bad time?”

“Don’t want my first time to be because he’s suffered a head injury,” Surana explained, hoping that by admitting that much she would be free to omit all the unpleasant and complicated emotional baggage. “Seems like it would set a bad precedent.” 

“Indeed.” Zevran nodded. “Now, about what you were saying earlier.” 

“Which part.” 

“About us being friends.”

Some small, paranoid part of her brain, the part that always knew when there were eyes on her and checked surreptitiously around corners for templars when she walked, started to panic. “We are, aren’t we.” 

“I . . . I have never had a friend before. Not really.” Zevran faltered. “I’m not sure I know how to be good at it.” 

Surana released a breath she’d been trying not to hold. “I only ever had Jowan really, and we proved with that that I’m kind of shit at it. Care to figure out the details together?” 

“I would like that,” Zevran said. “I believe I would like that very much.” 

“I’m glad.” Surana brushed her fingers against his. “Now, I _really_ need to pee.” 

“Oh! Neria!” 

Surana turned and walked backwards when Zevran called her name, bringing her hands up in confusion. 

“Leliana seems quite pleased with her nug. I believe she’s named it . . . “Schmooples?” or something to that effect.”

Surana laughed, shaking her head. “Good. I’m happy to hear it.” 

Zevran’s comment about Leliana’s nug, “Schmooples” or whatever Leliana had named it, had reminded her about one of the other gifts waiting in her bag. After she relieved herself, Surana fetched the golden mirror and found Morrigan. 

Morrigan’s long, elegant fingers brushed over the back, and she looked at her reflection. An awe came over her features as she examined her perfect nose and her sharp, cold eyes and then lifted her gaze back to Surana. “Tis . . . exactly like the mirror Flemeth smashed on the ground so long ago. Tis amazing that you found one so like it. You must want something in return.”

Surana raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Don’t be silly. It’s a gift.”

In the months they had traveled together, Surana had never seen Morrigan speechless. Her eyes dropped back to the mirror and softened. “You say that as though I am accustomed to such things. I have . . . never received a gift that did not come with some price before.” She looked back up at Surana. “I . . . I suppose I should say thank you. For the gift. Tis most thoughtful.” 

“You’re welcome,” Surana said. “I’m glad you like it.” 

“I . . . I do. Very much.”

Surana left Morrigan to her thoughts and the mirror and returned to Alistair’s room to check on him. She settled on the side of his bed and ran her fingers through his hair, making him promise to stay awake while her magic tended to the last of his injuries. She demanded stories from him with childish enthusiasm until she was falling asleep herself and curled up beside him, above the blankets and careful not to put any weight on his chest.

* * *

They were all woken and invited to breakfast with Prince Bhelen. Surana rolled off the bed and stretched, stiff from sleeping in a ball and cold. She would have changed right then and there, if she hadn’t seen Alistair out of the corner of her eye. They shared a moment, almost awkward, and she picked up her bag and moved behind a stone wall to change in privacy. 

After the Blight was ended. Once they were sure they could work this out. When they had time for a distraction and there was enough distance between her and Cullen. Surana exhaled through her nose and reached up the mess that was her braid. She tugged the ribbon free and set to brushing her hair out as she and Alistair walked to the office where Bhelen was enjoying his breakfast. 

Food was brought for all of them and Bhelen was grinning. “I told you men last night that you’ve simply outdone yourself. They’re talking all over the city about how someone finally went through Dust Town and slaughtered the carta like genlocks.” 

Surana was not a morning person. She set her brush aside and raised her chin like a challenge. “Most of them had no choice; it wasn’t fair to kill them.” 

“A little late to trouble yourself with that now,” Bhelen said, lowering his voice to neutral. He folded his hands on the table in front of him and Surana was fairly certain that he agreed, even if there was only so far he could say it. “You have done the city a great service. I promise, as soon as I take the throne, I will send the troops you need.” 

Surana bit her lip to keep from growling. “The darkspawn don’t wait for politics, your highness.” 

“Unfortunately, I cannot say _when_ I will be able to ascend. While many deshyrs appreciate that I ended Jarvia’s threat, Harrowmont still holds great loyalty. We need something more… dramatic to shift the balance.” 

A heavy, angry silence fell over the table. Surana felt used, she was _being_ used and what bothered her was that this was becoming the _standard_. The tower had been her home and there had been no conditions of support, once the crisis was ended, support was hers. The dalish elves had been in a similar state of crisis and, while it had been out of her way to do anything, no one was holding their help with the blight hostage to make her play the puppet. 

She could even understand _why_ Bhelen was doing it and she knew that suddenly changing her loyalty to Harrowmont would only prolong this in addition to making life for the casteless even _more_ difficult. Bhelen wanted the throne and a blight on the surface was in some ways a brief reprieve for Orzammar. 

But it got under her skin. She hated it. 

“What do you need?” She spoke softly, almost monotonous. A voice she had only used in the tower when snapping at the templar leering or calling her “knife-ear” would have ended in pain and misery for her and every apprentice with the poor enough judgement and the strong enough conscience to try and help. Looking at her breakfast, thin hands clenched to shaking fists beneath the table, Surana spoke perfectly evenly. 

“What do you know of the Paragon Branka?” Bhelen leaned forward.

The name was familiar, though she couldn’t place how or why. “I’ve heard the name and a Paragon is the greatest of the Dwarven people, elevated and revered, right?”

Bhelen nodded. “She was a smith girl, raised to nobility for her brilliant inventions. Two years ago, Branka heard of something the ancients invented, took everything, and left for the deep roads. She is the first Paragon in four generations, and she abandoned her responsibilities.” 

Surana nodded carefully, still refusing to look up. 

“A Paragon is like an ancestor born in this time. Her vote would outweigh the entire assembly. Anyone with her support could take the throne unchallenged.” 

“If it’s the only way to secure troops to stop the Blight,” Surana sighed and uncurled her fingers. There were crescents in her palms, painful and red, one actually dripping a small amount of blood when she folded them in front of her. “I’ll find Branka.” 

“I was hoping you’d say that.” 

She wanted to fireball the smile off his face. 

“My men have tracked Branka to Caridin’s Cross, an ancient crossroads lost to us four centuries ago. Her trail ends there. Perhaps with your Warden’s expertise, you can find what my men can not.” 

She wanted to laugh and cry and _scream_. _”Warden’s Expertise”_. What expertise? She hadn’t even been a junior member of the order when she was suddenly one of the only two members. Alistair had had training, been taught to fight and kill and listen for the taint in the blood. She had been out of her Circle for four days. 

She’d never killed anything more impressive than a giant spider until the day Alistair led head, and Jory, and Daveth into the Wilds. She shouldn’t have been there. She shouldn’t have been in Orzammar. She shouldn’t have been in charge.

Looking for a woman who had a _two year_ head start in the _deep roads_ should not have been her job. 

But she was. This _was_ her job. 

She brushed her thumb over the embossed griffin on her necklace. “We’ll need supplies and a day to prepare. We’ll leave today.” 

“My thanks. Seek Branka in Caridin’s Cross, I will delay the vote until your return.” 

Surana swallowed. “If you will excuse me, I have a great deal of work to begin.” She pushed her bowl aside and stood up, nodding once to the table and leaving the room at a quick, but graceful walk until she was out of sight of the door. She managed to hold herself together until she reached the room she had slept in. She pushed the door closed and sat with her back to it, Stanton curled up beside her. 

And she sobbed. 

She cried silently for fifteen minutes until she was out of tears and her throat was hoarse. She wiped her face with her hands and splashed water on it from the bowl the servants had left for her and Alistair, a luxury for the Prince’s assistants. Then, when she was done shaking she braided her hair, the weight on her back familiar and comfortable. 

Sten was standing outside the door, still as a statue with his arms crossed and his expression sour, his default posture. When the door opened, however, he dropped his arms and looked at her, soft again, almost sweet. 

“ _Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra,_ ” Sten said. He smiled a little in response to her confused, but affectionate, expression. “It is what I told myself while I was in the cage, in Lothering. In your tongue in means, ‘Struggle is an illusion. The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. There is nothing to struggle against.’”

“It’s a lovely thought,” Surana agreed. “Thank you, Kadan.” 

Sten gave a kinder, “hmph” than usual in reply and followed her as she, with her pack on her shoulders, set out to arrange for supplies to take into the deep roads. 

“I feel like we should all go,” she said, ostensibly to Sten, “but by the same token, it might be best if some stay here, just in case.” 

“My place is beside you.” 

“Thank you, Kadan. I know.” She sighed. “And I have a feeling that everyone else will say the same. Which at least makes that _easy_. I’m so sorry about how long this is taking.”

“It would be wisest to leave now.”

“We need the dwarves.”

“Why?”

“Because the archdemon threatens all of Thedas and we’ve only really got one shot at this. I want to make it count.” She looked up at him. “Still callow?”

“Not as callow as I thought.”


	2. Cross My Heart, Hope Not To Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Party reaches Caridin's Cross, Surana learns a little bit more about her tainted gift.

The next few hours were a whirlwind of activity as they moved in pairs to organize a last minute expedition into the deep roads. Bhelen had been willing to front the money for supplies, food, torches, extra blankets. It shouldn’t have been a long trip, but Surana was more than willing to milk the self-entitled prick of a prince for every coin he would spend. Most of their belongings would remain locked in the guest room of the palace, waiting for their return.

She could only hope that the ancient maps the dwarves had of the roads would be any good at all and that the more modern maps were accurate. It was a blessing that between her and Wynne they could make the dwarven out, the expedition might have been doomed from the start otherwise. 

“I’ll delay the vote for as long as I can,” Bhelen repeated as they set out from the palace the last time. “But try to hurry.” 

“We’ll be as quick as possible, your highness. I can promise you that,” Surana said. “Watch after that nug. Leliana loves him and I would _really_ advocate staying on her good side.” 

Bhelen didn’t look particularly phased by that, but he did assure them that the nug would be well looked after and that no one would cook and eat it. It was almost comforting, except that Leliana looked pale having never considered that someone would want to eat her newly beloved pet. 

Wynne had their papers from Bhelen in order so the guard at the Deep Roads entrance would let them pass and, but none of them were expecting the beefy ginger dwarf who stopped them on their way there. He had short shorn red hair and a long beard mustache done in two braids that went almost to his waist. Most notably, he smelled only a little better than the privy behind a brewery might have. If Tapster’s Tavern had had a mortal avatar, this dwarf was almost certainly it. Surana recoiled immediately. 

“Hey. Strangers.”

“I recognize him, he was the dwarf having that shouting match when we first arrived,” Zevran whispered in her ear. 

Surana nodded. “Yes?”

“Have you seen a Grey Warden hereabouts? I heard tell that he . . . or was that she--you understand, this was several flagons ago--was setting out to search for Branka on the prince’s own orders.” 

“They, actually,” Surana indicated herself and Alistair. “And yes.” 

He sneered. “Well, if you’re the best they’ve got, standards must have fallen way low. But I guess that accounts for all the elves and humans down here. Say, could I ask you a favor?” 

It almost gave her whiplash. From insult to asking without taking a breath. Surana gawked. Most people at least had the decency to pretend like they were being pleasant before asking something from her. It would have been refreshing if it weren’t baffling and honestly obnoxious. 

“Is that how you usually ask for favors?” 

“Name’s Oghren.” 

“Not what I asked.” 

“If you’ve heard anything about me it’s probably about how I piss ale and kill little boys who look at me wrong.” Oghren talked right over her and then laughed, but only for a second. “And that’s mostly true. The part everyone leaves out is that I’m the only person trying to save our only Paragon.” He looked up and met Surana’s eyes with a challenge she hadn’t initiated. “And if you’re looking for Branka, I’m the only one who knows what she was looking for, which might be pretty sodding helpful in finding her.” 

“Why haven’t you gone after her yourself in that case?” Surana asked, wondering if she was supposed to be surprised that some random drunkard apparently knew the dwarven Paragon personally. She was too out of her depth in Orzammar to be surprised by much, too busy being marginally surprised by everything. 

“Believe me. I did.” Oghren dropped his arms and his chin. “But what Branka was looking for was some lost thaig. Hasn’t been seen in centuries. I searched as far as I could but it would take a lot of armed men weeks to track her, which I’m betting is exactly what Bhelen’s scouts did. And then he passed the fruits of their labor onto you. If what he had wasn’t enough than you probably need to know what she was looking for. If we pool our knowledge, we stand a chance of finding Branka. Otherwise, good sodding luck.” 

Surana bit on the inside of her cheek. She wasn’t looking _forward_ to traveling with someone who smelled like the wrong end of a cask, particularly in close quarters, _particularly_ when he was also a complete asshole. But he wasn’t wrong on any account. “I suppose we have a deal then.” 

Leliana and Morrigan both gave small, disappointed groans and she could _feel_ Alistair looking at her as if she’d lost her mind. Again. 

But Zevran and Shale had both worked out and this wasn’t forever, he was just . . . helping her find this Branka woman. It would be fine. 

“You should know that Branka was looking for the Anvil of the Void,” Oghren told her as they walked to the mouth of the tunnel that lead to the deep roads. “It was the secret to building golems, built by the smith Caridin. With it, Orzammar had a hundred years peace while protected by the golems forged on the anvil. The anvil was supposed to have been built in Ortan thaig, Branka planned to start looking there. All she knew was that it was past Caridin’s Cross. No one’s seen that thaig for five hundred years.” 

Surana nodded. “Well, I have a map that will get us to the Cross and a punch of other maps that might get us the rest of the way.” She reached back and started to pin her braid up into a bun. “Why do you care so much about Branka anyway, just because she’s a paragon?”

“ _Why?_ ” Oghren looked taken aback. “Because I was sodding _married_ to her until she left and packed up our whole house to go to the deep roads.” He shook his head and ran a filthy hand over one of his mustache braids. “It was a stupid move. If I’d been with her, she’d have made it back years ago. But I forgive her.” 

“One can _hardly_ imagine why she left.” Morrigan scoffed. 

Surana wasn’t sure if she had forgotten how badly caves echo or if she simply didn’t care. Likely, knowing Morrigan, it was the latter.

* * *

Caridin’s cross was a few hours march past Aeducan Thaig, where they had rescued Lord Helmi. Unlike what she had seen of the deep roads, crumbled to narrow paths by time, the crossroads had endured. Huge carved columns held the ceiling far above them and while the smell of dirt and heat from the dwarven lanterns permeated everything, it was almost like having fresh air to breathe. Stale, but not as cramped. Sten looked immediately more comfortable, no longer having to stood on occasion to pass through a smaller tunnel. 

It was actually rather a good thing that he wasn’t horned like most Qunari. She imagined a wide rack would have slowed him down considerably. Not that that was the sort of thing she had any inclination to mention. 

There was a fire going in the middle of the road and a collection of unsavory, armed individuals who stood and pulled weapons as her party approached. “Well,” said the dwarf af the front. “Bhelen’s new toadies. Let’s show ‘em who’s king boys.” 

Bhelen, if the fight was any indication. Oghren may have been a drunken lout, but the massive hammer he was swinging certainly wasn’t just for show. She let Stanton lick the blood off her fingers and kissed his head. 

“Camp here then?” she asked. “We could make use of their fire and start fresh in a few hours. The nice thing about being down here is that there’s not really a “night” to impair anyone’s vision.” 

“You can see in the dark, can’t ya?” Oghren asked, already dropping to sitting and uncorking a flask that he had tucked into his pants. 

“Zevran and I can,” Surana nodded, “but most of our party is human, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Right. Right.” 

They got out a small pot and made a light stew, setting up blankets and organizing a watch, there wasn’t a good way to tell time so they agreed on rotating watches by when a log had to be added to the fire. Not entirely accurate, but something. 

Surana took her watch with Sten and Shale (who didn’t sleep anyway). They sat on either side of the fire, looking out into the darkness, Sten repeating a mantra in Qunlat to himself and Surana trying to listen to the faint growling in her blood that would tell her if darkspawn were near. 

“Kadan,” Sten said, loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to echo. 

Surana turned to look into the fire to see him, he hadn’t turned himself, eyes still ahead into the darkness to keep his watch. “Yes?”

“There is something I don’t understand. You are always addressed as a woman.” 

Surana turned her attention back out to the darkness and let her eyes readjust. “Um . . . yes? What about that don’t you understand?” 

“You are a Grey Warden.” 

She waited. 

“So it followed that you can’t be a woman.” 

Surana ran his words through her head twice, came to the conclusion that he had, in fact, just said that, and that she had no idea what that was supposed to mean. “That . . . what? That doesn’t make sense, Kadan.”

“So you understand my confusion then.” 

She snorted a bit of a laugh. “I’m certainly confused, I suppose.” 

Sten sighed. “Women are priests, artisans, shopkeepers or farmers. They don’t fight.” 

Surana looked over at Leliana’s bedroll, and then to her other side where Morrigan was sleeping. She wrinkled her brow and patted her leg for Stanton to come rest his head against her. “That’s hardly a universal truth. Some women fight.” 

“Why would women wish to be men? That doesn’t make sense.” 

Surana shook her head. “You think that they--I--can’t be a woman, because women don’t fight?” 

“Exactly.” 

“How do you--that--” she sighed and scratched Stanton’s ears. “I get the feeling we’re going in circles here.” 

Sten’s voice took on a softer, more contemplative quality. “Perhaps this is a quality of the Grey Wardens I had not heard about. A person is born, Qunari or human or elvhen or dwarf, he does not choose. The size of his hands, the color of his hair, whether he is clever or foolish, the land he comes from: these are beyond his control. We do not choose. We simply are.” 

“But a person chooses what to do, don’t they? In this case, a woman might choose to fight.” 

“Do they? We’ll see.” 

“I suppose we will,” Surana rubbed Stanton’s belly at his insistence when he rolled over. “You know, Kadan, I will miss you when you return to Par Vollen.” 

“It is more likely that we will die.”

“I will miss you when we die then.” 

She couldn’t be certain, not with his back to her and her eyes on Stanton anyway, but she hoped he smiled at that.

* * *

They came across darkspawn corpses the next “day” as they continued deeper. A rockslide had broken the way ahead, but a tunnel, either carved out by Branka’s party, Bhelen’s scouts or the darkspawn themselves, opened nearby. Surana handed Wynne parchment and a pen. 

“Can you keep track of our progress, in case we need to back track?” she asked. Wynne nodded. 

Drunk as he was, Oghren was a dwarf and he stonesense was invaluable as they navigated passages, keeping as straight on as they could, Shale walking nearest to the front in case something tried to surprise them. 

The growling got louder, soaking into her bones.

“They’re close,” Alistair warned, dropping his shield into position, a small group on both the left and right as soon as we exit this tunnel. 

“How can you tell?” Surana asked, dropping to a hushed whisper. “I can tell they’re there, but not---not all that.” She threw up a barrier as they proceeded cautiously.

“Learn to feel it,” Alistair told her. “Focus on the growling, I can’t make out words or anything, thank Andraste, but you can feel proximity.” 

Surana nodded. 

“Duncan. . . he told me that as you get more used to listening, you can feel the taint in other things, ghouls, even other wardens.” 

“Sounds handy.” 

“I know. Pity it comes with all the blood and the choking and the passing out.” 

Surana couldn’t help but smile a little, even as they emerged from the tunnel and into what the Darkspawn had set up as an ambush. There were more a little further ahead and on a natural bridge over a chasm that Oghren shouted was the right way. The emissary could have done real damage if Leliana hadn’t noticed him and planted an arrow perfectly between his eyes. Surana took advantage of a brief pause to check one of the shaperates old maps. “I think we’re getting close. These aren’t accurate for _finding_ things by any means, too many changes to the roads, but it looks like Ortan thaig wasn’t _that_ far from Aeducan thaig and we passed that yesterday. Or what I’m calling yesterday.” 

She hung her head and her shoulders. “Andraste, I miss the sun.”


	3. That's A Lot Of Spiders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party discovers Ortan Thaig and the next step of Branka's mad quest to reclaim the Anvil of the Void.

“So, are you a very religious man, Alistair.” Zevran was more than happy to break up silence whenever it happened to linger too long, and Surana was exceedingly grateful. “I am curious. I believe I heard you say you were raised in an abbey?” 

“I was raised in a castle,” Alistair replied. “I was _schooled_ in the abbey. As far as being religious… I don’t know. Not especially.” He looked down at Zevran. “What about you? Not in your line of work, I expect.” 

“Why do you say that?” Zevran looked almost offended, but the small sliver of a smile told Surana it was mostly for show. “I happen to be quite devoted, in my way, as most Antivans are.”

“Truly? But you kill people. For money.” 

“And I ask forgiveness for my sins from the Maker every chance I get. What manner of monster do you think I am?”

“But . . .you ask forgiveness and then you go right on with your sinning?” Alistair looked at a loss. 

“The Maker has never objected. Why should you?” 

“I . . .” Alistair hung his head and Surana brushed her fingertips against the outside of his gauntlet to offer moral support. “I have no idea.” 

“Well, there you go.” Zevran grinned. “Perhaps you ought to think about asking for a little forgiveness yourself, hm?” 

“I--”

“What about you, Neria? I think you are the only other person I am unsure about in regards to the Maker.” 

Surana bit the inside of her cheek. “It’s . . . complicated, I guess. I want to believe, and I do, in a lot of ways but . . . I don’t know. Most of what I was taught in the Circle is that, as an elvhen mage I’m . . . not really a person.” She looked over at Wynne. “Sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Neria. I’m so sorry you feel that way.” 

Surana rubbed the back of her neck. “I just. . . the only elf mentioned in the Chant is Shartan and he’s only mentioned twice. Other than that there’s the whole message that magic is evil and too easily abused and it’s just . . . it’s complicated.” 

“More than fair.” 

“A lot of other apprentices were of the same mind. Andraste’s story, her life, war and sacrifice were meaningful and speak to us, but it’s hard to revere something that seems to hate you.”

* * *

They walked a ways further, following a hodgepodge medley of ancient map and stonesense. Surana listened to the conversations around her joining in on some occasions and defusing arguments before they could begin in earnest. They navigated back to Caridin’s cross, then into another tunnel when their way was blocked. They fought darkspawn and deep stalkers and eventually, they found a sign that pointed to Ortan Thaig.

The pillars that had once marked entrance to the thaig were collapsed. From the beautiful carvings that laced their faces, Surana could only imagine how wonderous it might have been five hundred years ago, when the thaig was in less disrepair, much less before it had fallen to the darkspawn. Someone or something had scrabbled over the rubble. A good sign and they all followed suit, save Shale who pushed and shoved their way slowly through the block with Sten’s assistance. 

Ortan thaig was darker, lit with stone enclosed lamps rather than the trenches of lava that had flowed freely on either side of Caridin’s road. It was enough to see by, but little more. Still the thaig existed. Not that _that_ had really been in question. 

She was surprised to see shades. Ghostly figures of armored dwarves milling around, trapped in their last drills and the last moments before the thaig fell to the darkspawn or whatever else might have claimed it. It didn’t make sense, not really. Dwarves had no connection to the Fade. They didn’t even dream. As far as the Chantry taught they didn’t have “spirits” the way humans, elves and ostensibly Qunari did. Since their spirits never passed into the Fade, it stood to reason that they couldn’t be trapped there and become the ghosts that Surana had seen in the Brecilian forest or anywhere else. 

Yet here they were. 

She looked to Oghren for an explanation and was disappointed, but not surprised, when he didn’t notice and didn’t seem to care about the ghosts or the thaig one way or another besides trying to find Branka. It was . . . almost sweet, actually. 

“We should spread out and find some sign of Branka or this . . . anvil.” Surana said, eyeing the ancient and disquietingly silent thaig with both suspicion and interest. “Alistair, I’ll go this way, you go that way, that way neither group will be surprised by darkspawn.” 

They split up, Surana taking Sten, Shale, Stanton and Oghren with her to keep the party infighting to a minimum. She poked around old chests looking for information on Branka and, honestly, things that looked worthwhile. She found a census and tucked it away, remembering the young woman in the Shaperate that had asked about Ortan Thaig and guess that the Shaperate itself would be grateful for any scrap of lost history. 

While she poked around, Surana listened for darkspawn and noted that the only truly uncomfortable thing about the thaig was the sheer number of large, sticky cobwebs. She hated spiders. She had hated spiders since she was a girl, helping some of the older apprentices clear spiders out of the supply caverns as both punishment and practice. One had spat web at her, rooted her in place and then jumped, bearing her to the ground while she used her staff to keep its mandibles away from her face long enough to zap it with lightning. It had taken hours to get all the webbing out of her hair afterwards. 

The experience had given her a minor phobia that was easily handled by only dealing with spiders from a distance. 

But here they were and Ortan Thaig was overrun with large, venomous arachnids that she zapped at every turn, sticking possibly unnecessarily close to Sten in hopes that he would keep them all away from her. 

The further they walked, the more she focused on the noise in her veins. Not quite a growl, softer, weaker. It reminded her for some reason of Alistair and she remembered what he’d told her about wardens being able to even sense each other through the taint. 

_Neat trick_ , she thought, turning to follow the sense and regroup. 

The growl lead her to a dwarf instead, signs of blight around his sunken eyes and his head twisted at an odd angle, making him look more like an animal than a person. He had a thick, unkempt beard, clearly not kept for any sort of style but rather for a lack of choice. 

He screamed when he saw them, more terrified than hostile, trying to puff himself up. When that didn’t work, he tried to straighten himself, make himself bigger. “There’s nothing for you here!” he shouted. “It’s mine! I’ve claimed it!” 

“Claimed what? That Thaig?” Surana projected her voice back, loud enough to be commanding and clear without really being raised. “Who are you? What are you doing down here?” 

“Mine!” he shouted again. “I’ve claimed it! Topsiders are all alike. Theiving scoundrels, come to take my claim. You won’t! It’s mine! You’ll bring the dark ones back! They’ll crunch your bones! Crunch your bones!” The blighted dwarf bolted back into a cavern and Surana looked at her companions. “He might no something.” 

“It can not mean to follow that.” Shale echoed, acute disapproval in its tone. 

Surana shrugged and tossed a lightning blast skyward to indicate their position to the rest of the party, hoping it didn’t attract anything else, before she turned and followed the strange, blighted dwarf down the tunnel he’d taken, taking minor comfort in that his taint was the only taint she could sense so close.

It was a short tunnel and opened into a fairly defensible campsite, littered with bits of armor and broken furniture plundered from the thaig. The dwarf huddled by the dying fire. “Go Away!” he snapped again. “This is _mine_! Only I gets to plunder its riches.” 

“I just want to talk to you,” Surana adopted a sweet smile and lowered her shoulders to make herself less of a threat. She set a hand on Stanton’s head.

“P-pretty lady,” he said cautiously. “Pretty eyes, pretty hair, long, pretty ears. Smells the the steam from burning water. Blue as the deepest rock.” 

Surana smiled, slightly uncomfortable with the description. 

“So . . .the pretty lady won’t take anything from Ruck? You won’t take Ruck’s shiny worms and pretty rocks?” 

She shook her head. “No. I just want to talk. I won’t take anything, though if it’s valuable I might trade with you.” 

“Oh. Ruck not mind that, maybe.” 

“Can I ask you some questions, Ruck?” she kept smiling and moved slowly, her hand still on Stanton’s head, into the firelight. Behind her she could hear armored feet thundering towards them. She turned and kept her smile in place and her voice sweet. “Kadan, Shale, could you go tell Alistair not to worry? We’re quite safe and everyone is fine.” She turned her smile back to Ruck. “Sorry about the noise.” 

“I will answer your questions, pretty lady. Anything you wish.” Ruck scooted closer to her, staring up into her eyes. His own were going yellow, black veins bulging around the sockets. 

“When did you get here?” 

“Too long ago. I must think . . . five years? Six? Ruck no longer remembers the smells and sights of the cities.” 

Before Branka had left Orzammar then, that was something. “That’s so long,” Surana crooned. “You poor dear.” 

“The pretty lady understands. She knows how Ruck feels, she does.” 

She crooned and questioned Ruck, careful not to take her eyes off him or let her attention be strayed while she extracted every bit of information that might be relevant from him. He could sense the taint in her, having gotten his own by eating darkspawn flesh to survive. His mother was named Filda. He had hidden from Branka and taken the campsite when her people moved on. The “crawlers” (probably spiders) had stolen a lot of things from the camp and taken them to a nesting area not far. 

There was nothing more useful in the camp. The spiders had taken even the books. 

“That bone-picker is living in Branka’s old camp.” Oghren grunted. “Did you see the marks on the floor? There were a lot of people and fires there once. Those must be Branka’s papers he said were taken by the spiders. Nothing that fragile would be left from the thaig.” 

“Not without serious enchantment,” Surana agreed. She _really_ hated spiders. 

They left Ruck (he called out that he would be _thinking_ of her and Surana desperately wanted a shower) to his own devices and headed for the nest. 

It would have been a simple fight if they hadn’t needed to be careful about damaging any information the spiders had collected about Branka. In an ideal variant of this situation, everyone would hold back while Surana, Morrigan and Wynne bombarded the whole nest with fireballs. As it was, they found themselves ass deep in spiders with Surana alternating between healing and hurting and trying very hard not to vomit. She was tangled in a thick web, forced to watch at the blighted, swollen body of the corrupted spider queen skittered towards her on too many legs. Surana’s hands lit up with fire, trying to burn away the silk more quickly. She was saved when Sten swung Asala in a beautiful, arcing sweep that took out three of the queen’s eight legs and caused her to topple, kicking with her last legs and spitting poison. 

The party made simple work of the rest of the spiders after that and Leliana cut Surana free so she didn’t injure herself but melting the web onto her skin. 

They pawed through the debris and the refuse, looking for anything that would help them find Branka and pocketing small things of value because extra finances went a long way. It was Zevran who found the journal and held it up for everyone to see. Oghren snatched it away greedily and flipped through the pages. 

“Branka was thinking about me!” Oghren announced, looking up from the page. “I knew she still cared! Old softy. Looks like the Dead Trenches is our next stop, then. The say the darkspawn nest there, whole herds of 'em. But if that's where Branka went, then that's where I'm going."

“The “Dead Trenches” is not a wildly encouraging name.” Zevran commented. 

“Oghren, may I see that?” Surana asked. She took the book and flipped through, walking over to Wynne to double check some of the runes.

>   
> _We found evidence that the Anvil of the Void was not built in the Ortan Thaig. We will go south, to the Dead Trenches. The Anvil is somewhere beyond. My soldiers tell me I am mad, that the Dead Trenches are crawling with darkspawn, that we will surely die before we find the Anvil . . ._ if _we find it._  
>  I leave this here in case they’re right. If I die in the Trenches, perhaps someone can yet walk past my corpse and retrieve the Anvil. For if it remains lost, so do we all.   
> If I have not returned and Oghren yet lives, tell him . . . No, what I have to say is for his ears alone. This is my farewell.   
> 

Surana handed the journal back to Oghren and very carefully didn’t point out that it wasn’t _comforting_ in any sense of the word. She wanted to turn back. They surely didn’t need the dwarves help enough to risk a place called “The Dead Trenches,” did they?

They did. 

“We’ll make camp here,” she said instead. “And head for the Trenches when we’ve rested.” 

They camped in a shallow natural cave, crowded together to keep the possibility of an ambush at bay. Tense and stressed, Surana sat with her back to the wall, close to Alistair and watched their dim fire cast shadows. His hand settled beside hers and she touched his fingers with her own. 

“I don’t want to die down here,” she said, just under her breath.

“We both will someday,” Alistair was watching the fire with uncharacteristic severity. “When we hear the Calling, and . . . Duncan always said I’d know it when it happened, we’ll come down here to go out fighting.” 

“I still don’t _want_ to,” Surana curled her hand around his. “And we can’t yet. We have to end the Blight and save Ferelden and, Alistair, I _hate_ it down here.” 

“Me too.” 

“It’s too . . . familiar. No sun, voices bouncing off the stone. Bloody fucking spiders everywhere.” She bit down on the inside of her cheek. “I just--I’m glad you’re here.:

“I’ll always be here,” he promised. “It’s becoming one of the things I’m good at.” 

“When the Calling . . . does . . . happen,” she swallowed, “will we be together? I know you’ve been a warden longer and we might not hear it at the same time but--”

“Yes.” Alistair laced his fingers around hers. “We’ll go together.”


	4. So Many Things Are Worse Than Dying.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surana gets her first glimpse of an archdemon and discovers where darkspawn come from, leading to her first severe PTSD episode and a minor black out.

Bownammar, the great fortress at the dead trenches, was well marked on several maps. It had been the home of the Legion of the Dead for centuries, lost in battles and then regained, then lost again. Surana wasn’t sure of the fortress's status currently, but with the horde moving for the surface she allowed herself cautious optimism that the dwarves held Bownammar and they could seek aid or at least a better protected place to sleep. 

The growl in her veins grew stronger, almost louder, the closer they drew to the darkspawn nests. She chewed on the inside of her cheeks and squeezed her staff in her hands. There was something… big, down there. She looked over at Alistair, his expression darker than hers, more concerned. The growl changed subtly as they grew closer. It felt like singing. A melody, but a melody that froze her blood. 

“Feel that?” Alistair, lowered his shield, voice little more than a gruff whisper. “We must be close.” 

Surana nodded. 

The singing was too loud, to sharp, it hurt to hear. She squeezed her staff to keep from dropping it and covering her ears instead. Deafening but ringing _inside_ her head. They crept up along the edge of a ledge and looked over into a river darkspawn, lit by fires and torches. 

The singing got louder and she looked up in time to see black wings laden with corrupt pustules arcing into the air as the archdemon, a massive, blighted dragon and instantly recognizable as the cause of the singing zoomed past them. It roared, beckoning, calling its horde and Surana’s staff clattered to the ground. Her scream was muffled against Alistair’s gauntlet as he covered her mouth and held her close to him. “It’s okay,” he muttered in her ear, tense enough that she knew he didn’t believe it himself. “Focus on me. The Chant. _And there I saw the Black City, its towers forever stain’d, its gates forever shut. Heaven has been filled with silence. I knew then, and cross’d my heart with shame._ ”

She had had the Chant of Light drilled into her head enough times in the tower that it was automatic. She moved her lips against Alistair’s glove in silent repetition, trying to drown out the archdemon as it commanded its horde to march. As it flew out of sight, Alistair’s hand dropped away. 

She turned. No one in the party was better off that she was. They stared, slack jawed, in the direction the beast had flown. She took a breath. “It was moving the horde, getting ready to march.” Her voice wavered and she fought for control of it. “We need to hurry.” 

She looked back at Alistair. “What was that?” 

“Templar trick, for blocking out mind control. Duncan taught me to use it to block out the whispers in my dreams.” 

Surana nodded. “Handy trick.” 

“Are you alright?” 

She shook her head. “No, but that’s--we can worry about that later.” The horde was moving away, the growling and the singing would die down soon but knowing that they were headed for the surface did little to make that a comforting thought. 

They continued on, the roads smoothing and opening back into the “proper” deep roads once more. A fortress lit in similar fashion to Caridin’s Cross, loomed up before them, carved into the very rock. 

“Bownammar,” Oghren said. Surana thought there was a touch of reverence in his voice. “I thought it would have fallen into dust by now.”

As they drew closer to the fortress they were joined by the sounds of battle, metal ringing against stone and metal, shouts, cries and beastial screams ricocheting off the stone.

“Is that all you got, sodhumpers?!” One particular shout echoed above all the others. 

“I suppose we’ve found the legion,” Zevran said. “How marvelous.” 

“It sounds like they need help.” Wynne replied, looking up from the map she had been maintaining. 

“Them and everyone else,” Surana muttered, “but at least we’re good at killing darkspawn.” 

She hung back with Morrigan, Wynne and Leliana, providing covering fire for the legion as they approached. One confused dwarf turned when he noticed the fire flying from behind him and was saved only by a quick shot from Leliana’s bow. 

They advanced to the back ranks of the legion, melee fighters pulling ahead to meet the wave of darkspawn head on but advancing no further than the foot of the bridge the Legion was holding on. 

“Let them believe they hold us here!” A bald dwarf in black armor with impressive tattoos and a more impressive beard shouted in a voice used to giving orders. “When the throne is settled we’ll beat them back to their vile birthing grounds!” 

There was a small cheer from the legion contingent. 

He gave Surana’s party a polite, almost fond, salute. “Atrast vala, Grey Wardens. I’m Kardol, ranking officer of this contingent.”

“Neria. You don’t seem surprised to see us.” Surana replied. 

“We in the legion embrace death and abandon blind hope. The Blight is obvious to us.” Kardol said with a small shake of his head. “The surprise is not that you’ve come, but that you’ve come in so few numbers. What do you want here warden.” 

“It’s a long story.” Surana shifted her weight, feeling the world on her shoulders because two wardens, even two wardens and a pack of trusted, talented companions, was not enough to stop a blight. “I’m looking for Paragon Branka.” 

“Who put that dull idea in your head?” Kardol snorted. “Orzammar has bigger things to worry abo--ah. I see.” He huffed, mastering a look of disdain that Morrigan might have been envious of. “The deep lords in the assembly can’t make up their minds, so the _pretenders_ need added influence. I get that right.” 

“Precisely,” Surana nodded, slumping slightly, “I need Orzammar’s aid to end the blight and no one can help me until there’s a king so here I am. I don’t suppose you have anything that might help?” 

“Warden, you’ve got your work cut out for you. Paragon Branka is dead, everyone with sense know it. Past our line, the darkspawn kill everything.” 

“Then I’ll help you move your line. I need to find proof, something, anything, that will help me get the troops I need to beat this.” 

“I’d gladly lead an assault on the keep, but without an ass on the throne, we’ve got no orders. I’m not taking fool’s gold from a pretender. You want to go digging blind, you go right ahead.” 

Surana looked back at the bridge and at Bownammar’s gates. “Want has very little to do with this,” she sighed, and then in a stronger voice addressed her companions. “We’re going to advance slow and take the bridge, Alistair, Oghren, Shale, you three up front. Zevran, Stanton, you harass enemies that get close or break past the line but focus mostly on making sure our frontmen stay up. Kadan, I want you in the back with Wynne, keep her safe while she keeps everyone upright. Leliana, Morrigan, with me.” 

They advanced across the bridge, breaking wave upon wave of darkspawn with the legion looking on until they’d taken the gates. She was brushing away Alistair’s bruises when Kardol got her attention, the legion coming to join them. 

“I’ll be damned Warden, you’ve got backbone. You’ve dug a line through the spawn.” 

Surana couldn’t help but smile a little at the compliment. 

“Still no sense in your head, but you’ve got skill.” 

It was, in someways, like dealing with a much shorter, much more crass Sten. The compliments meant just a touch more because he gave them if they were deserved, but didn’t hold back because he was an asshole. 

“I get that surprisingly often,” Surana turned from Alistair to look down at Kardol. “Can your men hold this position until I return?” 

“If you return.” Kardol nodded. “We’re sure not giving it sodding back.” 

“Glad to hear it.” She rolled her shoulders back. “Let’s keep moving.”

* * *

The company’s usual habit of idle chatter as they walked was abandoned in favor of moving quickly and cautiously through the ruins around Bownammar, following the only path that had been cleared for travel. Darkspawn prowled, ogres, genlocks, hurlocks and shrieks, but their ambushes were met with preparation as the party advanced. 

Oghren picked up Branka’s trail, his stone sense once again invaluable, along with his ability to recognize Branka’s writing where it was carved into the walls. She had left a trail, wanting to be followed so someone could “walk past her corpse” to the anvil if it was necessary. 

They took a breather to tend injuries and eat a light meal in one of Bownammar’s crypts, Surana distracting herself by taking rubbings of the writings on sarcophaguses and runestones. At least they were getting close. Or, she _hoped_ they were getting close. The whole of the ruins were filled with a growing hum of darkspawn taint, but Alistair was right, if she listened she could sort out some things, like distance or how active the corruption was. The darkspawn themselves were a growl, the pustules of corruption they left in their wake were more of a dull buzz. Alistair, and she assumed probably other wardens and maybe ghouls, was a faint hum.

“ _First day, they come and catch everyone._ ” 

Surana stopped what she was doing and looked around to make sure everyone else had heard the mournful female voice that echoed through the stone cavern. Everyone else was looking around as well. 

“Creepy.” Alistair rose to his feet. 

Surana nodded. 

“ _Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat._ ”

“I know that voice.” Ogrhen growled. 

“Branka?” 

Oghren shook his head. “Can’t be sure but it doesn’t sound like Branka.” 

Surana and her party followed the poem as it continued, slow and miserably sad. Surana’s steps slowed as she continued forward, letting the others move past her, almost unwilling to continue as the poem went on. 

“ _Fifth day, they return and it’s another girl’s turn. Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams. _”__

“Neria?” Leliana fell into step beside her.

“Fine,” Surana muttered the lie before Leliana could finish asking. “Just creeped out.” 

“ _Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin. Now does she feast, as she’s become the beast. Now you lay and wait, for their screams will haunt you in your dreams,_ ”

The poem died off as they entered a room filled with darkspawn corruption. It covered the floor in an inch thick sheet, buzzing angrily in Surana’s veins while she tried to block it out. The corruption was alive. It squished and moved under her feet. She felt ill. 

“First day, they come and catch everyone.” The poem began again, but this time they could see the speaker. She was a dwarf, naked and bruised. Her hair was caked with refuse and blood, her hands held in front of her and her face looking at the floor. 

Surana didn’t have to see to know that when she lifted her head her cheeks would be pale grey and breaking out into yellow boils, leaking thick corrupted pus. A ghoul, but a ghoul with some control over her thoughts. 

“Third day, the men are all gnawed on again.” 

“Hespith?” Oghren called the name, pre-empting the arrow Leliana had knocked. “That’s my cousin Hespith. By my Ancestors, what’s happened to you?!”

Hespith looked up at Oghren’s voice, but if she recognized him she made no sign of it. Her milky white eyes instead focused briefly on Surana before dropping back to the floor. “An elf? Exotic and impossible. Feeding time brings only kin and clan. I am cruel to myself. You are a dream of strangers’ faces and open doors.” 

“This is . . . different . . . from normal darkspawn corruption.” 

“Corruption?” Hespith’s eyes cleared for no more than a moment. She shook her head and then dropped her gaze again, running her hands over her wrists. “The men did that. They were cut and festered. Their minds left. They marched out, like dogs, the first to die.” 

Stanton whined, ears lying flat. 

“But we are not cut. We are fed. Friends and family. Blood and flesh and bile and . . . and . . . all I could do was hope Laryn went first. I wished. So I would be spared. But I had to watch. I had to see the change. How do you endure that? How did Branka endure that?” 

Surana’s mouth moved without her consent, horrified curiosity pushing the words past her teeth. “What change?”

“What they did. What they were allowed to do. What Branka--Her lover, and I could not turn her. Forgive her...but no, she cannot be forgiven. Not for what she did. Not for what she has become.”

“What did she do?” 

“I will not speak of her!” Hespith shouted. “I will not turn! I will not become her. Not Laryn, not Branka!” Hespith turned and ran, bolting down a passage. 

“We have to go after her.” Oghren growled. “She knows something.” 

Surana nodded mutely, and swallowed her bile before it could come up. “Alistair, do you . . . did anyone . . . what, what was she talking about?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“I’m afraid we’re going to find out.” She clenched her hands to fists. “Everyone stay . . . stay close.”

* * *

While following Hespith they were beset by ogres and broke into a side room to minimize the damage caused by the boulders the ogres threw. When the beasts were dead, Surana found that they stood in a shrine that had once belonged to the legion. She took a rubbing, hoping that maybe it would be of use to someone and resumed following Hespith’s trail, disconcerted by the fact that her voice still echoed around them, a disembodied warning of doom. 

“ _She became obsessed, that is the word but it is not strong enough. Blessed Stone, there was nothing left in her but the Anvil._ "

Oghren growled, but said nothing. 

The corruption only grew thicker the deeper they went, until they were following _it_ more than Hespith’s mournful calls. 

“ _The men, they kill… they’re merciful. But the women they want. They want to touch, to mold, to change until you are filled with them…_ ”

“I’m going to be sick,” Leliana muttered weakly. Surana took one hand off her staff and found Leliana’s twining their fingers together and drawing strength from the connection. Morrigan and Wynne both crowded more closely to the center of the group as well, on instinct, more than anything else. 

No one said anything. 

“ _They took Laryn. They made her eat the others, our friends. She tore off her husband’s face and drank his blood._ ”

Surana would have given anything to make Hespith stop talking. 

“ _And while she ate, she grew. She swelled and turned grey and she smelled like them. They remade her in their image. Then she made more of them._ ”

Surana swallowed and squeezed Leliana’s fingers tight. “That--that’s where they come from. That’s where Darkspawn come from.” 

It was a mystery she hadn’t needed solved, but she clung to anything that looked like information she could use. If the darkspawn had a _source_ , and external source, then there was more hope of stopping them, wasn’t there? Something, anything that could look like a light in this darkness. 

“ _Broodmother…_ ”

The floor beneath Surana’s feet was softer, squishier. She looked down and regretted it immediately because she was standing on writhing, diseased flesh. She let go of Leliana’s hand and began to channel as they walked, Hespith’s voice gradually being replaced by a wet, squelching noise akin to raw chicken being slapped against skin and the buzzing growl in Surana’s veins threatening to drown out everything else. 

The broodmother itself (Surana couldn’t bear to think of it as a “she” or as something that had once been a dwarf) was huge. Grey flesh that seemed almost moldy stretched and covered a colossal shape, immobile under its own weight. It had four sets of breasts and tentacles that slapped into walls and the floor and into itself. 

“Fight it from a distance!” Surana shouted. “Don’t get too close!” She crackled with lightning throwing the full force of a storm at the creature, striking it at the same time as Morrigan’s firestorm. A tentacle erupted from the ground at their feet, sending both mages to the ground where only quick action from Sten and Oghren, hacking through tentacles like logs, managed to save them. 

When the it finally died, the broodmother screamed, spit and bile spraying from its putrid mouth before it slumped over. The buzzing and the growl in Surana’s veins died down. She blasted it again to be sure and stood still, shell shocked, for a long moment afterwards until Hespith’s voice echoed into the chamber once again.

She was standing on a high ledge above where the broodmother had been. “That’s why they hate us,” she said, soft but still echoing, “that’s why they need us. That’s why they take us . . . that’s why they feed us. But the true abomination is not that it occurred, but that it was _allowed_.” Hespith turned away from them. “Branka, my love. . . The Stone has punished me, dream-friend. I am dying some something worse than death. Betrayal.” 

Hespith jumped. 

Surana screamed, but she screamed the wrong name. “ _Fennick!!!!!_ ” ripped out of her mouth, bouncing deafeningly off the stone walls as all the horrors she’d seen compounded one into another into another and left her as helpless as she had been the day Fennick leapt out of the tower window.

* * *

She came too later, wrapped in a blanket with her head on someone’s lap and her face red and stinging with tears. “S-s-sorry about that,” she muttered once she had her bearings, picking herself up and pulling away from Wynne’s calming fingers. “I guess the stress just--”

“It’s fine.” Morrigan, of all people, assured her. “We are, for a moment, safe.” 

Surana looked around for Sten, terrified that her weakness had caused him to finally leave, but he was there, sitting and sharpening Asala with Stanton curled up beside him. She exhaled. “It won’t happen again.” 

“If it does, we will be here,” Zevran assured her. “Wynne explained while you were unconscious, you have seen quite a lot of horror for a nineteen year old, have you not?” 

“Not more than anyone else here,” Surana started to braid her hair on instinct. “I shouldn’t have--”

“You’ve been trapped underground under high stress for more than a week, fighting monsters and dealing with hearing the darkspawn, really hearing them, for the first time.” Alistair’s hand covered hers. “It’s fine. I promise.” 

“Thank you.” She shrugged the blanket off her shoulders. “Let’s rest here for the . . . night . . . or whatever. We’ll find Branka tomorrow, she and this “anvil” can’t be far now.”


	5. Baby's Got A Heart Like A Nine Pound Hammer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surana encounters two paragons and a magic anvil

Surana recovered and was determined that no one see her break down like that again. She didn’t want to be in charge, but she was. She would be worthy of their trust and she was, honestly, getting the hang of command. It was slow, but it was happening. She used a little bit of their water ration to wash her face and packed up camp while Shale looked on. When everyone else woke, she smiled as best she could, and started off. 

They found Branka’s trail fairly fresh, not far from where they’d made camp. Oghren crossed his arms over his chest. “If Branka is anywhere, this has to be it. She will not be unprepared.” 

The only thing that stopped Surana from snapping that Branka had _better_ be prepared after everything they had seen and heard was remembering that Branka was Oghren’s wife and he loved her. Even if she had been bedding someone else for likely the whole time she’d left him in Orzammar. If not longer. 

“Maker, I hope she agrees to come with us,” Surana sighed, not feeling overly confident in that. 

“This is a troubled place,” Sten said. “If this Branka is here, we must be wary of her.” 

“I wonder what state she must be in,” Zevran stepped lightly over a puddle of something Surana was trying not to think about, “after having lived here so long.”

“She must be obsessed.” Morrigan concluded. 

Surana nodded. “If we can trust anything Hespith said, she is.” 

They walked through a narrow tunnel, tight enough that it forced them to move single file, but tall enough that neither Shale nor Sten had to hunch. Clearly made with golems in mind, albeit requiring them to go slow. 

They emerged into a wide chamber, high, sheer walls enclosing them in the space. No sooner had the last of their party (Wynne) stepped through than a stone gate fell into place. Trapping them. Lightning charged Surana’s fingers as she tensed. The growl of darkspawn echoed in her blood. 

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

“Let me be blunt with you, after all this time my patience for social graces is limited. You don’t mind, I trust.” 

As a unit, the group looked up at the woman who had captured them. She was middle aged, dwarven, carrying a heavy shield and a cruel looking mace. Oghren lit up with recognition and threw his arms open in greeting. “Branka?! By the Stone! I Barely recognized you.” 

Branka, in sharp contrast, seemed entirely uninterested by the presence of her husband. She raised an eyebrow and frowned. “Oghren?” Her frown deepened. “It figures you’d find your way here eventually, hopefully you can find your way back more easily.” She looked back to Surana, unmoved by the way Oghren’s face fell and then scrunched into a snarl. “And who are you? The hired arm of the latest lordling to come looking for me? Or just the only one who didn’t mind Oghren’s ale-breath.” 

Surana’s immediate attempt to defend Oghren (who was smelly and rude and irritable but had proven to be very useful and certainly very desperate to get his wife back and didn’t deserve this) was cut off by Oghren defending _her_ instead. 

“Show some respect, Woman. You’re talking to a Grey Warden.” 

Branka looked only moderately more interested at that. “Ah. So an important errand boy then. I suppose something serious has happened. Is Endrin dead? That seems likely. He was on the old and wheezy side.” 

“Yes.” Surana said, crossing her arms. “And the assembly is deadlocked.” 

“And?” Branka snorted. “What would a surfacer care about dwarven politics. You must have a patron. A high-placed patron. And what would he want, I wonder?” Branka threw one arm wide. “I don’t care if the assembly puts a drunken monkey on the throne. It doesn’t matter because our greatest invention is lost to the very darkspawn it should be fighting. The Anvil of the Void. The means by which the ancients forged their army of golems and held off the first archdemon ever to rise. It’s here. So close I can taste it.” 

“She’s nuts.” Alistair said softly. “Completely.” 

Surana exhaled and tried not to agree. “I’m here because there’s a blight and Orzammar can’t send troops to assist the surface until someone is king. They need you to make that happen. Prince Bhelen is the candidate I’m working for, he’ll actually move Orzammar forward.” 

“A thousand Bhelen’s could die and history wouldn’t notice. I’m looking for something important. The Anvil lies on the other side of a gauntlet of traps designed by Caridin himself, my people and I have given body and soul to try and reach it. This is what matters. This has lasting meaning. If I succeed the dwarven people benefit. Kings, politics, all that is transitory. I’ve given up everything and would sacrifice _anything_ to get the Anvil of the Void.” 

That confirmed everything Hespith had said. Surana’s vision went red and lightning crackled in her fingers, but it wouldn’t do her any good. They needed Branka. As much as it sickened her, and it sickened her worse than working with Bhelen did, ending the blight was more important. 

“Does that include Hespith and the other members of your house?” She shouted back. 

“Enough questions.” Branka snapped. 

Surana took a moment to be pleased that she’d managed to hit a nerve. 

“If you want me to get involved in this imbecilic election I must have the Anvil. There is only one way out, Wardens, forward. Through Caridin’s traps and to the Anvil.” 

If Branka had always been this way Surana could see why Oghren drank as much as he did. Not that that was a kind or courteous thing to say or to think. 

“What has this place done to you?” Oghren roared, spittle flying from his lips. “I remember marrying a girl you could talk to for two minutes and see her brilliance.” 

Branka stared at him with dispassionate eyes. “I am your Paragon.” She pointed to the far end of the enclosure she had them trapped in and Surana listened, and heard darkspawn. Branka had let the darkspawn take the women of her house so she would have an endless supply of them to try and wear out the traps. Surana felt like she was going to be sick. 

They fought their way through the passage full of darkspawn and came to a room filled with poisonous gas. Shale went in, because it didn’t need to breath and Surana had thought that that would have been the end of it. 

Except that the statues lining the walls weren’t statues, but golems who came to life as movement passed them. Surana and Wynne focused on purifying the arm as the other party members ran to Shale’s defense, Zevran and Leliana twisting the valves that let the gas into the chamber. 

They paused to breath and cough and listened as Branka’s rambling filled the hall. Surana wondered if she’d been talking the entire time and they simply hadn’t been able to hear her over the fighting. 

Next was another room. The blade traps were easily disarmed when both Leliana and Zevran noticed them, Sten, Alistair and Shale keeping close to the rogues’ sides as the golems on either end of the room broken free from their stasis. 

The final trap was a massive stone column with four carved heads each facing an imbuded anvil. As they drew close, the eight eyes opened, glowing purple, and summoned an avatar at each stone. When the first spirit fell, the anvil glowed. Surana touched it and the resulting shockwave blasted into the head facing it. Blood poured from the eyes and the heads changed places. 

It was a puzzle. She shouted for everyone to pull back and focus on one anvil at a time and eventually, the column collapsed. Surana smoothed her hands over her face, sagging slightly with relief when she hear the door on the other side of the room click. “Let’s hope that’s the last of Caridin’s deterrents,” she sighed. “I hate the Deep Roads.” 

The last door lead to a well lit and hot hallway. Surana could smell smoke and lava and she marveled at the tall iron doors and the solid black stone slab carved with words she couldn’t read. The was Caridin’s Forge. 

And that, she decided, eyes fixing on the huge black anvil that commanded a place near the edge of the outcropping, was the Anvil of the Void. But the Anvil managed to not be the most impressive or important fixture in the wide room. Golems stood either side of the doors, forming both honor guard and hallway to the massive metal golem in the center. The metal golem was at least a foot taller and a foot wider than Sten, with runes carved and inlayed into its “skin” in gold. It moved as they approached and spoke in a masculine, metallic voice that echoed much as Shale’s did. 

“Greetings, I am Caridin. Once, longer ago than I care to remember, I was paragon to the dwarves of Orzammar.” 

Surana listened for the sound of Oghren shitting himself, but was startled when Shale pushed past everyone else to get a better look. “Caridin? The Paragon smith?” 

“Ah!” It sounded almost like a smile. “There is a voice I recognize. Shayle of the House of Cadash, step forward.” 

Surana looked from Shale to Caridin and back again. Shale seemed stunned. “You know me? Was it you who made me? Gave me my name?”

“Have you forgotten then?” Caridin sighed. “It has been too long. You were once a dwarf, as I was. A noble warrior, one of the best to serve King Valtor and the only woman to volunteer.”

“A . . .woman?” Shale sounded taken aback. “And a _dwarf_?”

“I laid you on the Anvil of the Void and gave you the body you now possess. It has been too long indeed.” 

“The Anvil of the Void,” Shale repeated. “That is what we are here for.” 

“If you seek the Anvil, then you must care about my story, or be doomed to repeat it.” 

“You made the Anvil, I take it?” Surana asked, tearing her attention away from the discovery that Shale was, or at least had been, a woman. And a dwarf. 

Wait. Golems had been dwarves? 

Was that even possible? 

Blood magic. Or the dwarven equivalent of blood magic. Blood Enchantment. Something, anyway. Something that probably should not have been messed with.

“The Anvil allowed me to forge a man of stone or steel, as flexible and clever as any soldier. As an army, they were invincible, but I told no one the cost. No mere smith, however skilled, has the power to create life. To make my golems live, I had to take their lives from elsewhere.” 

“Sounds a _lot_ like blood magic,” Surana bit down on the inside of her cheek. “An exceedingly dangerous path.” 

“The darkspawn were pressing in. Originally I took only volunteers, the bravest souls willing to give their very lives to protect their homeland.” Caridin turned his face to Shale and Surana felt that if he had had a face his expression would have been a profound mix of admiration and misery. “But King Valtor was greedy. He wanted more and casteless, criminals, even his political enemies were to be all given to the Anvil. It took feeling the hammer myself to realize the height of my crimes.” 

“So you sealed it away,” Surana nodded. “But what now?”

“The blow of the hammer opened my eyes. My apprentices knew enough to make me as I am, but not to construct a control rod, I retained my mind. The Anvil must be destroyed but I can not do it myself, no golem can touch it.”

“I--” Surana started to speak and was cut off by Branka screaming “NO!” as she rushed into the room, having followed slowly after the party to see if the traps were disarmed. “The Anvil is mine! No one will take it from me!” 

“Shayle,” Caridin’s echoing voice took on a note of desperation. “You fought to destroy the Anvil once, you were among the most loyal, you stayed at my side throughout and eventually I sent you away out of mercy. Do not let it fall into the wrong hands!” 

“I . . . do not remember.” Shale said. “You say we fought. Did you use the control rods to command us.” 

“We destroyed the rods! Perhaps my apprentices learned enough to fashion new onces, I do not know. It that is the case then all they need is then is the Anvil to make all the slaves they want.” He looked back to Surana. “You! Please, help me destroy the Anvil. Do not let it enslave more souls than it already has!”

“Of course,” Surana replied immediately. “Of course.” 

“Don’t listen to him!” Branka howled. “He’s been locked away in here for a thousand years. Stewing in his own madness. Give me the Anvil and I will give you an army like you’ve never seen.”

“Branka, you crazy, bleeding nug-tail,” Oghren growled, “does this thing mean so much to you that you can’t even see what you’ve lost to it?” 

“Look around. Is this what our empire should look like? A crumbling tunnel filled with darkspawn spume? The Anvil will let us take back our glory.” 

“I made up my mind!” Surana spun on Branka, lightning crackling under her skin and blazing in the blue rings of her eyes. “The Anvil will be destroyed.” 

Any complaints other members of her party had would have to wait. 

“I won’t allow it!” Branka pulled her mace. “I won’t!” 

“Branka,” Oghren tried pleading once more. “Don’t throw your life away for this.” 

“The Anvil must be destroyed, Branka.” 

“Just give her the blasted thing!” Oghren begged. “She’s confused . . . maybe once she calms down, we can talk to her.” 

“Think of Hespith. Her house. I’m sorry, Oghren. But after what I’ve seen and heard, that’s not a risk I’m willing to take.” 

Branka was done with words, she held up a control rod and Caridin froze solid while four of the other golems started to move against their own limited will. Surana bit down on her panic. “Smash the rod!” She shouted. “Take her down!” 

In the end, it was Oghren who put an end to Branka’s madness. Surana had been dodging the blows from a controlled golem when it stopped moving suddenly along with its fellows. She turned and found Oghren standing over his wife’s corpse, bleeding badly from a gasp in his head where her mace had dented the helm. She wanted to say something, but there were no words to make “sorry you just killed your wife” sound anything like what she was feeling. 

She _hated_ the deep roads. 

“Neria,” Zevran limped over to her and she automatically coated her hands in magic and set to mending a probably broken rib. “Not that this wasn’t terribly noble and all, but perhaps you forgot that you needed Branka to make someone king?” 

“Not to mention that an army of golems may have proven most useful against the darkspawn,” Morrigan looked unfairly unruffled. 

“I don’t care,” Surana brushed the cuts clean from Morrigan’s pretty face. “I’m not about to let anyone make more golems.” 

“And why not?” 

Surana sighed. “Because, Morrigan, the people who end up becoming golems may well be you or I. What we’re looking at is an extreme form of the rite of tranquility. The dwarves who become golems and placed under a control rod become automatons. Mindless, completely subservient. Do you think for a _moment_ that if the surface got their hands on this, which they might, that mages and elves wouldn’t be the first people under the hammer?” 

Morrigan faltered at that and nodded, pulling away from Surana’s ministrations. “I see your point.” 

“The Tranquil--some of the Tranquil, at least--retain some of their mind and most of their memories. They have preferences, it’s just entirely logical. They’re cold and they bother me but it’s. . . they don’t become _this_.” Surana gestured to one of the golems Branka had taken control of. She looked over at Oghren, still staring at Branka’s broken body and exhaled. The blow he’d taken didn’t look life-threatening. He could bleed in peace for a moment, he seemed to need the space. 

Instead, Surana turned her attention to Caridin where he was breaking free of the paralysis he’d fallen under. 

“More life lost because of my invention,” Caridin’s voice rang with sorrow. “I wish no mention of it had entered history.” 

“No kidding.” Oghren grunted, pulling out of himself enough to walk over. “Stupid woman. Always knew the Anvil would kill her.” 

“But you have helped me,” Caridin’s attention turned back to Surana. “The Anvil waits there for you to shatter it.”

“I do not understand,” Shale interrupted. “Why was that woman unable to paralyze me as she did you, Caridin?”

“I am unsure. Have you been altered?” There was a spark in the question, something that remained of the curious genius that had first dreamt up the anvil. 

“I once had a pathetic master of a mage,” Shale recounted, “he experimented on me. I killed him and was paralyzed.” 

“Perhaps he was bringing up old memories. Memories of the time when you fought at my side. The paralysis always happened when the master died. As for your free will, you always were a strong woman, Shayle. I am pleased to see you remain such.”

“I . . . do not know what to say. Thank you.” 

“Do not thank me. This was my doing, this is my legacy.” His attention refocused on Surana, “Is there any boon I can grant you for your aid? A final favor before I am freed from my burden?” 

Surana nodded. “Two, actually, if that’s alright. I need a paragon’s support to settle the election for Orzammar’s throne. That’s, uh, that’s actually why I’m down here.” 

“For the aid you have given me I will put hammer to steel one last time, and forge you a crown for the candidate of your choosing.” 

“And also, well,” Surana turned to look at Oghren, “Oghren, you lost Branka to this. Is there anything _you_ want?”

Oghren looked honestly surprised that she was asking. He looked down, over to where Branka’s broken body was lying. “I don’t suppose you can bring Branka back? Make her a golem like you?” 

“Even if I could, I would not do this to her.” 

“I figured,” he sighed. “Then I don’t want anything to remind me of . . . this.” 

Surana felt immediately sorry that she had brought it up, but what else could she have done? 

While Caridin worked, the sound of metal being heated and hammered echoing through the carven, Surana tended the wounds of her companions and investigated the area. The golems, save Caridin, were either broken or still. Nothing more than statues with empty eyes and lyrium carved runes running and wrapping their length. 

She turned her attention to the huge stone tablet they’d seen when first entering Caridin’s forge, and she looked to Shale to see if it had jogged any memories. It had not. They took a rubbing of it anyway, perhaps it would be of some use to someone. 

“Shayle of House Cadash,” Shale muttered, mostly to itself. “Is that who I once was? I find this difficult to believe.”

“You’re tall for a dwarf.” Surana teased, not feeling particularly humourous but clinging to it as a defense mechanism. 

“I am not a dwarf!” Shale replied indignantly, and then it paused and seemed unsure. “Or at least I am not a dwarf any longer. If I _was_ this Shayle of House Cadash as Caridin said, there must be some evidence of my existence remaining. I must find it.”

“Orzammar might have records,” Surana set her hand on the tablet they’d been taking a tracing of. “Or it might be written on here.” 

“There may be another way.” 

“Oh?”

“What Caridin said, it has allowed me to remember one thing. I believe I know where Cadash Thaig is. It connects to Caridin’s cross, as did many Thaigs. It is not far from here. I could mark the location on its map”

Surana took one of the maps from Wynne and Shale pointed out the location. It wasn’t far from Caridin’s forge, and it was in the right direction. “That might actually be faster than back tracking all the way to Ortan,” Surana nodded. “I’d be willing to alter our destination a little to move through Cadash Thaig if you wanted.” 

“Its offer is appreciated.” 

“As much as I hate it down here, a minor detour might be good anyway. Give everyone time to come to terms with what’s happened.” She shifted her weight. “So you’re . . . female. I had no idea.” 

“I did not think it needed to be said. It has never told me what gender it is, has it?” 

Surana hadn’t considered that. “Fair point,” she admitted. “Rude of me, I’m female.” 

“Good for it,” Shale managed to sneer. “I am certain that to other creatures as soft and weak as itself that would be perfectly obvious. The truth is that whatever fender I was is irrelevant now. I am a golem. I have no gender. It will not become an issue?” 

Surana shook her head. “No, of course not. I’m a woman myself, I can’t think of what sort of issue I’d make. I just. . . would you rather be addressed as such?” 

“It is irrelevant to me. Now, let us crush something and watch it fountain blood. That is a girlish thing to want to do, yes?” 

“There’s not much to crush in here.” Surana shrugged. “And no, you still can’t crush our party members.” 

“Bah.”

The ringing stopped and was replaced by a mighty hiss of steam as the crown was cooled and Caridin returned to them. He presented the piece to Surana and she marveled that despite its size, it wasn’t terribly heavy. It was angular, as much dwarven craftmenship seemed to be, but intricate and beautiful in its way. 

“Thank you.” 

“It is done. Give it to whom you wish. I do not wish to hear their names, or anything more of them. I have already lived far beyond my time. I have no place here.” 

Surana handed the crown to Leliana. “How do I destroy the Anvil?”

“Take my hammer, and smash it into the Anvil.” Caridin directed. Surana nodded. 

It felt like a funeral march up the shallow outcropping over the lava river below. The Anvil was as tall as Stanton and both long and wide enough that Sten could have rested comfortably atop it. Enchantments covered the metal, runes glowing and marked and the metal unscuffed by the centuries it had waited. 

Caridin’s hammer was heavy. Surana grunted under the weight as she brought it up above her head and didn’t so much swing as let the weight go. The Anvil screamed under the blow, light shooting through the cracks as enchantments unwound themselves and the whole of it fell apart. 

Caridin came up to join her. He looked at the broken pieces and his broad metal shoulders relaxed. “You have my eternal thanks. _Atrast nal tunsha,_ stranger. May you always find your way in the dark.” 

She took a few steps back as Caridin didn’t so much jump as walk off the edge. It wasn’t like when Fennik or Hespith had done it. This felt less like suicide. She wasn’t sure how, but she was . . . she was alright. 

Surana turned back to her party. “Let’s hope getting back is faster than getting here was. She exhaled through her nose. “The good news is that we seem to have cleared most of a path.” 

“Well, that pretty much beat the sod out of how I imagined it.” Oghren said as she rejoined the party. “You ready to head back yet and share the news?”

“Yeah,” Surana nodded. “Let’s go while there’s still a surface to save.”

* * *

“I did not realize that you were a woman.” Leliana said to Shale as they walked. 

“That is because I am not.” Shale grumbled. “I am a golem. As I explained to it.” Shale gestured at Surana. 

“But you were once a woman. And a dwarf. Doesn’t that . . . mean anything to you?” 

“The bard speaks of someone who lived five centuries ago. What have I in common with her?” 

“You share a soul.” 

Surana was tempted to comment that _that_ was a matter of theological debate, concerning dwarves, the fade and the nature of the soul, but it wasn’t worth the argument and she was inclined to mostly believe that the soul was something no one, not even the chantry, really had a right to define. 

“I do not.” Shale huffed. “It talks in riddles. Desist, or I shall crush its head.” 

“No.” Surana cut in. “There will be no head crushing.” 

They walked further, perhaps about ten minutes to half and hour when Shale stopped. It reached out and rested a hand against a stone column. “This is it, Cadash Thaig.” 

“Is this where you’re from?” Leliana asked. 

“Perhaps,” Shale said, apparently too awestruck to spit its usual venom. “It may also be where I was found. These ruins are always crawling with vermin, but there may be something of note further in.” 

The party proceeded with caution, Shale taking point, guided by half memories. There were darkspawn and deepstalkers, but all were easily enough dispatched. The deep stalkers proved to be the larger hassle, moving in small swarms and able to sneak up on them the way the darkspawn couldn’t. 

Near the thaig’s center was a statue, a dwarf holding a massive stone tablet. Shale stared at it in wonder. “This, this I remember,” it said. “This monument, it was made to honor those who volunteered. Those who became golems and there, “Shayle of House Cadash” just as Caridin said. I remember, now. I remember Shayle. That . . . was me.” 

Surana produced more paper and handed them out to get another rubbing of this monument, furthering dwarven historical research had become something of an accidental hobby. “You do? That’s marvelous, Shale.” 

“ _Marvelous?_ ” Shale scoffed. “To remember being a squishy, weak creature of flesh?” It paused. “Perhaps. I will need to think on this. I will speak to it later, perhaps. For now, let us carry on as we were.”

* * *

The Assembly was still deadlocked, but this was not a surprise. Surana held the crown firmly as Alistair and Sten got the doors, Shale proceeding in before her. If they were going to have to make a scene of this to get anything done, they would make a _hell_ of a scene. 

“Well met, Wardens!” Bhelen raised his hands at they approached. “What news to you bring?” 

Surana held the crown aloft where everyone could see it. A collective gasp ran through the assembly. “We bear a crown forged by Paragon Caridin for his chosen king.” The gasp died immediately into stunned silence, a welcome reprieve from the bickering. 

“Caridin was trapped in the body of a Golem,” Orghren explained. “The Warden freed him and Caridin crafted this crown for his chosen king, chosen by the ancestors themselves!” 

Harrowmont, Surana recognized him from the fight on the day she’d first arrived, was the first to speak. He brought both hands up peaceably, looking tired. “I would like to believe Oghren’s word, but it’s well known that the Grey Wardens are Bhelen’s hirelings.” 

Fighting broke out again, incoherent shouting that was only dimmed when the Assembly speaker, an old dwarf with a booming voice, shouted for silence. “This crown _is_ of Paragon make and bears House Ortan’s ancient seal.” He looked at Neria, staring down at her from the raised steps he was standing on. “Tell us, Warden: Whom did Caridin choose.” 

“Bhelen Aeducan.” Surana met the speaker’s eyes. “In hopes that Orzammar would forge a more brilliant future.” 

“At last, this farce is ended and I can take my rightful place on my father’s throne.” 

Surana was grateful that at least the dwarven coronation ceremony was quick. The crown was placed on Bhelen’s head and Surana felt a distinct unease in her stomach. Bhelen, the crown sitting on his head as though it had _actually_ been forged with him in mind, turned to address Harrowmont. “Do you acknowledge me as king?” 

Harrowmont looked crushed, but nodded and gave a low, kneeling bow. “I . . . cannot deny a Paragon. You are King, King Bhelen.” 

Bhelen’s smile turned wicked. “Then as my first act as King I call for this man’s execution!” Bhelen pointed at Harrowmont as the older dwarves eyes went wide. “Guards! Seize him!” 

“Harrowmont was an honorable rival!” Surana shouted over the clamouring voices. “Let him retire in peace!” 

Bhelen turned, and she was honestly surprised to see cunning more than cruelty in his expression. “You know the war facing us better than anyone, Orzammar cannot be divided. Anyone who undermines my rule is only serving the darkspawn.” He snapped and the guards dragged Harrowmont away. 

_Maker,_ Surana thought, _Tell me I haven’t put a monster on the throne._

“I must return to the palace at once to gather my generals and prepare our troops for the surface. Come, we will talk there.”


	6. Clear Skies From Here On Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surana wraps her business in Orzammar

Bhelen did not remove the crown as the doors of his study closed behind them, but he did openly smile at Surana. “You have my thanks, Warden. Without your aid I would not have taken this throne so smoothly, or so soon.” 

“And you’re very welcome, but my concern is and has only been securing troops against the blight. Will you honor the treaties?” 

“My generals are already preparing for a mission to the surface,” Bhelen assured her, his voice as smooth as milk. “When you have need of us, you will have every able-bodied dwarf in Orzammar. As you did more than expected, I would like to offer you a personal reward as well.” He turned and produced a made from a well made stone box. “This belonged to my brother Trian, let it remind you of your ties to Orzammar.” 

Surana took it with a forced smile and a small curtsey, every annoyed fiber of her being wanting to snap that she had no interest in personal rewards, much less the mace of the brother he had probably murdered. 

None of that would have been at all useful. 

“Thank you. I look forward to fighting at your side, King Aeducan.” 

“And I at yours. May we both crush our enemies, Warden.” 

She curtseyed a second time and excused herself, leaving the palace immediately, her companions falling in beside her. “I just want to be outside,” she confessed, running a hand over her braid. “I just want the sky above me because I _hate_ it down here.” 

Kardol was waiting immediately outside the palace doors. He had had a wash and was eating what was probably the leg of a nug. He smiled when he saw her. “If I’d heard it second hand I would have called it a sodding lie. Warden, we’ve got a king because of you. The rest, impressive, but the Legion is most grateful for restored leadership. It frees us to take the fight to the darkspawn properly.” 

“I’m glad. Can I count on your to fight the Blight at my side?” 

“Nay,” Kardol shook his head. “Our duty is down here. When you break the Blight, and you’ve got the skill, we’ll make sure they have nowhere to retreat to. You’ll have us indirectly. That’s more than any surfacer can say.” 

Surana smiled. “And I appreciate that. But we need you topside. Show the world your skill and help me break them up there.” 

Kardol considered this. “You’ve got the skill to back up your word, at least. Fine. Each of the Legion owes our homeland a death, but if our lives are better shed on the surface, so be it.” 

“Your lives will be for Orzammar still,” she assured him. “Making sure there are fewer darkspawn to retreat down here. Breaking them soundly up top.” 

Kardol actually laughed at that. “Fair enough, Warden. Back to Orzammar when we win though, I’ll not stay topside to lose my stone sense. See you then, Warden.” 

“It will be an honor, Kardol.” She watched him head off to tell the rest of the legion what was happening and shook her head. There was one person in Orzammar, at least, who she would be glad to see on the surface. 

They ran a brief errand to the shaperate to offer what knowledge they had picked up in the roads, an official gift from Ferelden, or at least from Maric’s son, to thank Orzammar for their assistance with the Blight, and then headed out of the Diamond Quarter and out of the Commons for the surface. Dagna, the dwarf girl who had asked her about the Circle waved, jogging her memory about that errand. 

They would return to Redcliffe by way of the Tower, she supposed. Wouldn’t that be lovely? 

“Will you be joining us, Oghren?” Surana asked, using conversation to keep her pace steady so she didn’t make an ass of herself by _running_. 

“Nothing left for me here.” Oghren uncorked something that made her eyes water from where she was standing. “Might as well help you kick the asses of the darkspawn topside.” He belched. 

“We’ll be glad to have you.”

There were cheers as their party passed through the Commons and then into the Hall of The Ancients. Surana tuned most of it out, her eyes fixed on the doors and the promise of sunlight ahead. 

The doors opened with a thunderous sound, revealing, not sunlight, but the dark of night. It was hard to be disappointed, however, the moment she was out from under the mountain. Surana breathed in deep and was gratified to hear that most of her other companions were doing the same. Morrigan muttered something scathing about Orzammar’s smell and Leliana gasped before cooing at Schmooples about the icy pattern of the stars high above them, clear as though they’d been freshly painted. 

Surana tore her eyes from the firmament when she heard Oghren take a deep breath. She turned and saw him staring up, one hand clutching the stone at his side. 

“Just. Give me a moment.” 

Out from under the mountain, Surana felt much more at ease. Her smile came more naturally and she gave Stanton’s ears a scratch. “Take all the time you need, Oghren.”

“By the Stone,” he stared up into the endless stars. “I feel like I’m about to fall off the world with all that . . . _sky_ up there.”

“You won’t,” she promised, “but take your time, I need you ready to fight.” 

Oghren snorted. “If I could fight Radnar Vollney’s second after downing fifteen pints of lichen-ale in a half-hour, I’m not going to be put off by a high-sodding-ceiling.” He rolled his shoulders back and looked straight ahead, starting down the steps determinedly, though Surana watched him plant his feet as soon they touched the ground. “Let’s go. We’re wastin’ . . . whatchamacallit, daylight.” 

She caught up easily. “Not really,” she chuckled. “It’s night.” 

“ _It’s night_ ,” he mocked her in a high pitched voice and then laughed.

* * *

She was delighted to discover that Bodhan and Sandal had set up the cart as a makeshift stall near the open air market. Bodhan waved when he saw them and assured them that everything was in order. With trade to Orzammar having been cut because of the strife with the throne, everyone had been glad of new money and new items and Bodhan had done quite well for both himself and Sandal in her absence. 

Surana helped set up tents, with Oghren as the newest member of their party, they were one short, but it was a simple matter of Surana saying she would share with Leliana if it looked like rain. She prefered sleeping outside anyway. 

She settled to sitting beside Alistair and yawned as the rest of the party put together tents and turned in for the night. 

“We’re almost ready, aren’t we?” Alistair said, resting his head against hers as she leaned against him. 

Surana nodded. “I think so. That’s all the treaties taken care of, at least. Eamon will be eager to call the Landsmeet.” 

Alistair went quiet and she curled her fingers around his. “We have to stop by the tower first,” she reminded him. “I need to check preparations with Irving and deliver that letter for Dagna and--” she bit down on the inside of her cheek. “Are you as nervous as I am?” 

Alistair kissed her temple and smiled when she blushed. “Probably more. _You’re_ our fearless leader and no one keeps threatening to make you king.” 

Surana smiled at that. “I suppose that’s true. I’m . . . sorry, Alistair. For what it’s worth.” 

He squeezed her fingers. “I’m going to ignore it for as long as possible.” 

“Maker, same.”


End file.
